


The Old Fountain

by Soquilii9



Category: Twilight Zone
Genre: Gen, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:40:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22607152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soquilii9/pseuds/Soquilii9
Summary: Dedicated to my lifelong friend, Beverly Hobbs Duke, on her 72nd birthdayBased on The Twilight Zone, Rod Serling’s ‘Kick the Can’ episode, I weave a tale around a old school fountain that still exists in my mother’s hometown of McComb, Mississippi.Does magic actually exist?  Is there a portal to another dimension?  Or a doorway into the Twilight Zone?  What would we use such a portal for, if we had one?
Comments: 7
Kudos: 3





	The Old Fountain

_There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call the Twilight Zone.  
_

**_~ ~ ~_ **

It was irritating, the way Charley McKnight’s wooden rocker creaked on the warped old boards of the porch. Either the chair was squeaking or the porch was squeaking; he didn’t know which. At 76, he liked to rock but he didn’t need this kind of aggravation. He rose from the chair, grabbed his cane and used it to violently shove the chair over. It clattered loudly. The noise alerted the nurse inside the small rest home.

‘Mr. McKnight? Mr. McKnight, you should be inside, taking a nap. All the other -’

‘It’s what all the others in this living cemetery are doing, is that it?’ he barked at her, cutting her off.

‘I didn’t mean it like that, Mr. McKnight.’

‘I’m going for a walk!’

The nurse almost told him not to go too far - or not to go at all - but thought the better of it. She’d taken enough crap off the bitter old man. She shrugged and returned to her duties, allowing him to slowly hobble away. 

'He'll come back when dinner's ready,' she mumbled to herself.

Charley used his cane for balance as he stepped down off the porch and crossed the short expanse of grass. In the old town of McComb, Mississippi, the oak-lined streets were narrow, barely allowing two cars to pass. Small dead, slippery leaves lay everywhere and the air carried with it the subtle, nutty aroma of the oaks and their acorns. He made his way carefully along the cracked, uneven sidewalk, buckled over the last century as it was by the mighty trees through which only an occasional beam of light penetrated thick foliage to strike the ground. A light breeze created moving, leafy patterns that tricked an old man’s eyes - the sidewalk itself seemed to be moving. Charley didn't see a block of sidewalk turned up at a sharp angle and he stumbled on it. Better to walk in the street, he decided, at least until he found the grassy foot path he used as a boy, that ran between a couple of old homes just up ahead. He could walk there without worrying about falling or getting mowed down by a car.

He knew the path well. Generations of children in the old town had used it to get to the local grammar school from the neighborhood. The school had been rebuilt after the old one burned down in 1972. He thought of the old fountain that had stood at the edge of the playground since he could remember. He hoped it was still there. Was it still running? He hadn’t drunk from it in a long, long time.

He walked a little farther. 

Ah, there it was, but there was no sound of splashing water. He approached it, walking as fast as the cane allowed. At last he was standing in front of the massive concrete structure, looking at it closely. There was the dedication to the memory of the old school, carved into it in 1957. It had aged; the rimmed bowl was dry and pitted from years of rainstorms and the four iron spigots on each side jutted uselessly out of the structure. The ten-foot high pointed cap on top looked to be in good shape. Why, he wondered, hadn’t it been torn down in the city’s foolish quest to replace everything? He glanced up at the new school, rectangular, featureless and plain. It would look at home in a prison, he thought. Why, there weren’t even any windows. He stared at it for many minutes before he inched closer to the fountain and leaned on the rim.

In that instant, water flowed up from the spigots, splashing his shirt and startling him. Had they just kept the water off and just now turned it on? He leaned over and sipped the cold, fresh water, piped in from some spring deep underground. It tasted the same as it had when he was a child, slightly metallic, bitingly cold and almost sweet. He’d forgotten how refreshing it had been, after playing in the schoolyard and getting all hot and sweaty, to guzzle this water! No water in his entire life had ever tasted better.

He looked up. The old school seemed to waver into view until his vision focused, then there it was, once again standing proud as it once had, a monument to classical lines, beautiful architecture and plenty of windows! Suddenly, the air was alive with sound; of children playing, laughter, little screams of delight; the somber tones of teachers overseeing the playground, watching over their charges. There was a screeching of metal as the see-saws and merry-go-rounds whirled and dipped, the chains of the wooden-seated swings all grinding against their hinges and bolts. The fountain was no longer pitted and stained, but running steadily. The circular basin built into the obelisk drained away the water as it flowed up from the spigots. 

Charley stood dumbfounded, staring at the children frolicking on the playground. No one seemed to notice him. He stepped around the fountain and approached the playground, taking a seat on one of the benches placed here and there. He felt strange; out of time; something seemed to be off but he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was. It looked like 1957, the year of the dedication. And the children! As they frolicked and played, one or the other would turn in his direction. They looked so very familiar. That boy, there - he was the spitting image of Jerry Mageors, a cute little freckle-faced kid who was always getting into trouble. That little girl, there - she had a brace on her leg, as had little Carolyn Donnelly, back at school at last after a long bout with polio. One very small boy raced around the playground with the kickball like a whirling dervish; no one ran that fast except Charlie Shaeffer. Why, he and Charlie had always answered together whenever the teacher called on one of them, just to aggravate her. That was… Old Lady Braswell! How had he remembered that? How was it that these kids were all his old classmates? 

He rubbed his eyes and looked up at the old school, swiveling on his seat on the bench to take in the view behind him; old '40s and '50s model cars in the streets and old-school traffic lights. The houses looked freshly painted. Disbelieving, he looked at the kids on the playground again. That _was_ Carolyn. It _was_ Charlie, and Jerry, and there was Lynda, tall for her age, and Beverly, small for hers. And Loretta, and Dysena, the girls who he remembered always had a tough time learning, and Betty and Becky, who were at the head of the class. All the old memories came rushing back. Here they were, in plaid dresses with Peter Pan collars, penny loafers and saddle shoes, jeans and overalls with striped shirts, playing kickball and drop-the-handkerchief, and jacks and hopscotch, and jump-rope, making the swings go as high as they could, pulling the poles of the swing sets out of the ground! There they were, pushing the merry-go-round as fast as they could, then after 'paying' for the ride, jumping onto its spinning platform, staggering off drunkenly, then running to climb the monkey bars and hang upside down! A few sat in small groups, girls mostly, chatting and giggling. A few kids were playing hide-and-seek; the boy who was ‘IT’ finally emerged from behind a bush. It was… _himself._ He could swear to it! How was that possible?

All the kids romping in the sunshine, burning energy after a morning of being cooped up in a classroom; getting exercise and good old Vitamin D... they were all so happy! 

It was fun to watch them and at the same time terrifying, for he didn't understand. It all flew in the face of logic. Should he maybe approach someone and ask them, the teachers, maybe? No... better not. He didn’t understand what was happening enough to make sense of it, much less ask questions. He might find himself in a loony bin, not a rest home. He dragged a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his glasses. Damned cataracts were making his eyes water in the sun. Or were they tears?

Charley couldn’t look any more. He didn’t belong here. He knew that much. The proof of that was the little boy who was ‘IT.’ _He was already here._ He had to go back… if he even could...

The old man rose from the bench and tottered back to the fountain, hoping by some miracle he could reverse this unworldly process. He reached out and touched it. Nothing.

His heart lurched with fear. _Would_ the phenomenon reverse itself? Or would he be trapped here, a man out of time? Quivering, he leaned forward and sipped the cold, biting water.

_**That did it.** _

Everything changed. He was back.

It was 2025, not 1957.

The fountain was as it should be in this time frame, dry and unused, again showing the effects of age.

Charley heaved a sigh of relief. He wiped his brow. After he caught his breath, he got a crazy idea. Would it work again? 

Just for the almighty hell of it, he bravely tried it for a second time. _Poof_ , back to 1957 he went, and another sip brought him back to the present. The date carved on that old obelisk was some kind of a destination in time and space - how, he didn't know. There was apparently some sort of other-worldly or magical portal between 1957 and 2025. Unbelievable. _Damn!_

.....or... was there? Had it been real? Or had he been dreaming? Was his brain liquefying at last? Hell, he was in a Home, wasn't he?!? Or had that experience been what they used to call in the 60s, a 'happening?' It was enough to _make_ his brain liquefy, that was for sure. Charley simply stared at the ground for many minutes to catch his breath and clear his head.

Then he turned toward the playground, the 2025 playground. The contrast between what he now saw and the, well, the _vision_ he had had earlier (a dream? hallucination?) was astonishing. What a change! No teachers in the more flattering, longer dresses could be seen hovering among the kids. Just one young woman; he assumed it was a teacher, was overseeing the playground, clipboard and pencil in hand, sitting behind a table with plastic boxes on it. What were the boxes for? It was so quiet. Why was it so quiet?

Only a few of the children were playing in the sunshine, swinging from wide, black rubber-strap style seats; the swings not occupied hung from their chains in a U-shape, sides almost touching. The seats were apparently uncomfortable for the kids didn’t swing for very long, and seemed to wince once they stopped and wiggled out of the contraptions. As for jumping out of one of these? No way. He could see how the seats pinched the hips. Whose bright idea had that been? Wooden seats might need to be replaced, but they didn’t heat up or pinch butts. You could stand on them or sit and jump out at the apex of the swing. Maybe somebody decided a good old broken arm wasn't worth it the fun.

The playground featured slides of plastic formed into spirals, not the good old, straight, hot metal ones that seared your skin off if you weren't careful. There were silly house structures and raised platforms with bridges and other features meant for play, mounted on bases covered in mulched tires for safety, but nothing truly fun like ten-foot tall jungle gyms made of pipe that taught children physical skills. Strong hands and a good grip, balance and technique; that was the ticket. And you learned to judge what to do and what not to do. These devices didn’t teach those skills. There were no merry-go-rounds whatsoever. No one was playing anything like kick-the-can, drop-the-handkerchief, dodge-ball or even hopscotch. In fact, many of the children were seated in the shade, on the ground or on benches, staring at their cellphones. 

Charley stepped closer so he could see the boxes on the tables more clearly. Phones, more than a dozen of them, all colors and styles of the newfangled smart-phones were in the boxes! Did every kid have one? Were they forced to leave them here to even get them to play in the sun? He watched as one boy approached the table and asked a question of the teacher or supervisor or whatever. From this closer vantagepoint he could hear what they were saying.

‘Can I have it back now, Miss Terry?’

‘It hasn’t been quite ten minutes - but if you promise to stop making fun of Sherry, you may have it back. Remember, she’s autistic. You shouldn’t have yelled at her.’

_She’s using those phones as punishment??_

Miss Terry handed him back his phone and he moved away from her, sat on the ground under a shade tree close to where Charley was standing, and began staring at it, swiping his finger up and down the screen.

Old Charley McKnight watched him, shaking his head in disbelief. He couldn’t believe anything he was seeing. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t natural. And it damned sure wasn’t right. Newfangled devices were ruining the younger generation. They needed stamina. They needed exercise. Hell, most of them were heavy kids and they outnumbered the few slender children who were the most active. What a terrible trend. Sure, brains were important in an age run by machines but why did the machines have to take over? Didn’t people count any more? What if we had a war? Would these kids grow up to fight it with computer games or with strong bodies? The more he thought about it the more irritated he got, more irritated than listening to a creaky old chair on a porch. This was the future of humanity. He was watching it dissolve right before his eyes.

An idea came to him. The old fountain.

Why not take the boy over to the fountain? Maybe he could take him back to 1957 where he had just come from. Maybe he could show him what _real_ fun was! Let him play with the kids, maybe tell them he was his grandson or something, just visiting. Get his head out of the clouds and his hands off of that damnable smart-computer-phone thing, or whatever they called it! Maybe...just maybe, if he could persuade just one child to put down the insiduous device that every one of them seemed to have, and get out there and actually _play_ , it would do some good. Charley could bring him back then and the boy could inspire the others - maybe even take them on a time travel tour - be an example. Yeah, one example, right? Cascade effect. It was possible. Wasn’t it? Maybe the kids would leave their blasted devices at home and instead go outside to play; run, jump and turn somersaults in the grass.

He paused for a moment to imagine it. Just one child, shown a different way, could change the world, for out of playgrounds came the skills to interact with people - in boardrooms, offices, in oil fields, hospitals, on battlefields, even in government! Everywhere! Playgrounds were essential but only when you used them properly did they do any good! 

Why not try, anyway? Take the boy over to where the old fountain was. Tell him to touch it; to drink from it. Show him 1957. The water will run. Just wait. _The water will run! Then you’ll see!_

He caught the boy’s attention and motioned him to come; in his innocence and out of curiosity, the boy approached the old man. 

‘What’s your name, son?’

‘Charly.’

‘My goodness, that’s my name, too. Do you spell it the same?’

He chatted with the child and asked him if he would like to see the old fountain. It was magic, he said, and he wanted to show him. He convinced the child to follow him the short distance to where the old fountain stood. The two of them were unseen by Miss Terry, whose nose was buried in her own phone. She only gave the playground a cursory glance before turning her attention back to her email and her internet and her obsession. 

‘Charly, you're going to see some real magic. You have to touch the fountain... then when it starts running, you drink from it. Then you’ll see. It will be like when I was a boy. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I just came from there. You can go and come back, Charly, as often as you want. Take your friends with you. There's fun on the other side. You won't believe it, Charly!’

‘What if the bell rings?’

‘We’ll be back here in plenty of time, don’t worry.’ 

'Well... ok.' Charly took Old Charley's hand and they started toward the fountain.

Just before they reached the fountain, however, a patrol car approached on the street that bordered the playground. The lights on the roof flashed. Charley McKnight, still holding little Charly’s hand, looked up and shaded his eyes with his free hand. The car pulled to the curb and a police officer emerged from the car and swiftly approached Old Charley.

‘Sir, is that your child?’

Old Charley McKnight paused, wondering what the problem was. ‘Why, no…’

The officer then addressed the child. ‘Son, is this man your grandfather, or uncle? Do you even know him?’

‘No, sir,’ Charly replied, looking up at the old man quizzically. ‘We were just -’

‘That settles it. I’ve been watching you for the last few minutes, Mister. Just where were you planning on taking this boy?’

‘Why, over there, to see the old fountain, that’s all.’

The officer looked at him suspiciously. ‘Uh, huh, sure. Let me see your identification.’

_Oh no,_ Charley thought. ‘I left my wallet on my bed. I live at the Oak Grove Home for the Aged just down the street.’

‘All right. Tell you what. I’ll drive you home, run your license and have a talk with the director. You can’t just take some child off for a walk. Not in this day and time. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Officer, I meant the boy no harm.’

‘That’s what they all say.’ 

The old man shook his head and looked down at the child. ‘Go on, Charly. Go see the fountain without me. Maybe I can show it to you later, but for right now, go see it for yourself. Don’t forget to touch it - then take a sip! I promise you, Charly! It’s real! To come back, just touch it and drink from it again! Go and come back - and tell the others, Charly! Tell the others! It's fun there! You'll see! _Come back and tell the others!’_

Believing the old man to be senile, the officer didn’t cuff him. ‘That’s enough, Mister. Come with me now.’

The officer took Charley firmly by the arm and escorted him to his patrol car. He opened the door and waited for Charley to climb into the back seat behind the grille. Charley looked back at the child. He was less than twenty feet from the fountain.

‘You get back to school right now, young man,’ said the officer gruffly.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Charly.

Just as the car drove off, little Charly pointed in the direction of the fountain and grinned mischievously at the old man. _I'm going, Mister_ , he seemed to be saying.

Just then, the school bell rang its loud, insistent tone. Old Charley McKnight could hear it over the radio chatter coming from the police car. From the back seat, he watched little Charly turn toward the school. The other kids were filing in from the playground. The car started to move, carrying Old Charley with it. The boy turned to look back longingly at the fountain. 

Old Charley couldn't see what the boy finally decided to do. The police car carried him on down the street, out of sight.

_An old man, wanting only to change the world for the better, if only in one small, bizarre way; if only for just one small boy. He hoped little Charly drank from the fountain. He hoped he found fun. For Old Charley, however, no good deed went unpunished. Not even in the Twilight Zone._

_THE END_


End file.
